Always
by Dark3Star
Summary: John was loyal to Sherlock from the get go, and he remains so after the fall. Even if everyone else around him seems to be jumping ship.
1. Loyal

Always

"You have to let him go, Jon,"

John clenched his fists reflexively as anger surged through him. Not this again. Wouldn't anyone _ever_ learn. "You sound like my worthless therapist Mycroft," John spat, not even turning to face the elder Holmes.

Mycroft was easy to brush off, John liked him about as much as Sherlock ever did. It was the others that got to him. Those bastards Donovan and Anderson... Lestrade, Molly, even Mrs. Hudson had, in their own way, encouraged John to 'let go' of Sherlock and to 'move on.'

As a result of their needling John hardly spoke to them anymore. He still lived at 221 B Baker Street so this occasional made paying the rent awkward.

"If the shoe fits," Mycroft drawled. "You can't say that what you're doing is healthy."

John scoffed and continued to stare resolutely out the window. What did any of them know about healthy? He still worked, did his chores, read a book now and then (none of them were as good as a case, but still). None of them saw that however. They were so bloody focused on how Sherlock was still a part of his life even though he was gone. John still lived at their old apartment, still kept Sherlock's website active, still wrote his blog ( although now his blog was more about letters to Sherlock and brief essays defending Sherlock's name). He'd threatened to shoot Mycroft (and he would have too) if that sneaky bastard removed so much as a single article of Sherlock's clothing. John has even taken to wearing Sherlock's scarves in the winter.

"You're obsessing," Mycroft continued.

John didn't dignify Mycroft with a reply. Yes, Sherlock was still a big part of his life. One could even argue Sherlock was a somewhat consuming part of his life, but no more so than when he had been alive.

As much as it hurt John made a point of going on with things, keeping fit, sharpening his mind (as much as he could, he would never compare to Sherlock). All this because he was convinced there was more to Sherlock's story than he knew and by God he would have answers if it was the last thing he ever did. In the meantime all he could do was wait and be ready when the time came.

"You're hopeless, John. Did you even know that your watch has been broken for the past year?"

John smiled a knowing smile to himself. Of course he knew. He had carefully removed the battery himself, the day after Sherlock had jumped. His watch was frozen reading the hour and the minute Sherlock had jumped. Sherlock had put the idea in his head in the first place. He believed it was some eastern European tradition where people stopped clocks when they heard about a loved one's death. It made sense to John, so he adopted the tradition, in his own way. The clock was supposed to stay stopped forever. Maybe when he had his answers he'd start it up again. In the meantime it was a perfect representation of the part of him that was frozen in that moment, willing Sherlock not to jump.

Mycroft let out a tired sigh. "I could have you committed you know."

John spun to face Mycroft at last, fire in his eyes. "Whatever you do, Mycroft, you'll never get what you want."

Mycroft regarded him with a patronizingly bored expression. John thought it was time to change that. He began advancing on the elder Holmes, slowly.

Lock me in whatever deep dark hole you can find, sell the flat and all his positions, you still won't convince me to 'let him go'. Change the environment, change my surroundings, and I will still be committed to him, our friendship, and his good name. I always will be."

John was completely in Mycroft's personal space now, staring him down. "You can't break me or buy me Mycroft. You never could."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "You always did have an unhealthy attachment to my brother." A slow sneer spread itself on Mycroft's lips. "He does not deserve such loyalty."

They were so close to each other that Mycroft never saw the punch coming. There was a sudden burst of light behind his eyes and the snap of bone. Mycroft hunched over, shielding his broken, bleeding nose.

"You're a disgrace of a brother Mycroft," John snarled, snapping the long umbrella Mycroft usually carried over his knee. "Dead or alive I will never give up on your brother." John tossed the shattered umbrella on the floor and stormed out.

Mycroft groaned and fumbled for his cell phone as he heard the doors slamming behind John.

_John is being very stubborn. -MH_

_Did you expect anything else? Put some ice on your nose before it swells. -SH_

_Have you hacked my security cameras again? -MH_

_Please, don't be stupid. I know my blogger. -SH_

_I hope this is all worth it. We could move much faster if you would come out in the open.- MH_

_Unacceptable. I will not put him at risk.- SH_

_Even if he is the only one still waiting for you, you'll have a hero's welcome when you return. -MH_

_After he's punched me, I'm sure I will.- SH_

_Maybe after that you can tell him the rest of it, and share you're true feelings. -MH_

_One step at a time Mycroft. -SH_

There was a pause of a few minutes and then...

_Thank you for protecting him in my absence. - SH_

_You would make his threats of violence seem like child's play if I did not. - MH_

_True enough. Where are we on tracking down Sebastian? -SH_

_Not over text. I'll call you later. - MH_

_Be quick about it. -SH_

Mycroft shook his head as he slipped his phone back into his pants pocket and dapped at his nose. Sometimes he wasn't sure who was more stubborn about being loyal to who. John to Sherlock, or Sherlock to John. One thing was certain, he still expected a 'happy announcement' at some point in the future.


	2. Reaching Out

**Okay, so this was originally meant to be a one shot, however some reviews made me rethink that plan. I can't promise how often this will be updated, given that "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling" is my main focus right now, but I will finish it. I guess I'm going to turn this into a reunion fic. **

**My apologies, this is completely un-beta'd. I hope you enjoy anyway.**

* * *

John stared morosely out the window from his chair in 221B Baker Street watching the rain fall. Today was a bad day. He had those since Sherlock fell.. two years and four months of them. His knees are drawn up and his head is resting on them.

For all the bravado he might show Mycroft and the rest of the world, every day was a bad day, just some were worse than others. He still worked at the surgery, still went on with things, just as he'd thought to himself when Mycroft was attempting to read him the riot act, but it _hurt_ like nothing he'd ever felt before. He'd rather be shot again...

Some days he felt strong and sure, that he'd be able to figure out the whole truth of what had happened and honor Sherlock's memory in doing so. And then there were days like today... Days when he stared out at the rain and missed Sherlock until he couldn't see straight.

A knock at the door broke his train of thought. John stood quickly and wiped his face. Whatever happened he was still a soldier; he could pull himself together if need be.

John strode towards the door and opened it, glowering immediately upon seeing who it was. The bridge of Mycroft's nose and cheek were badly bruised, but there didn't seem to be a need for a splint any longer. John moved to close the door as quickly as he had opened it when Mycroft's hands flew up to try to stop his progress.

"Wait, John, _please_!"

John paused. He didn't think he'd _ever_ hear Mycroft say 'please' before. It did very little to appease John, but it was enough to make him pause. John glared harshly through the gap in the door at the elder Holmes. "You have three seconds to give me a good reason."

"Here!" Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a legal sized envelope that appeared to have John's name scrawled across it.

John's eyes remained narrowed. "What is that?" he gestured to the letter with his chin.

"A letter from one of my operatives in deep cover," Mycroft whispered, relaxing the slightest bit. "He's been away from friends and family for a long time. He's almost done with an impossible mission and...I'm worried he'll lose his focus if he doesn't have some tie to home."

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dubious. "Wouldn't this also be a distraction? Not to mention dangerous if he's in as deep cover as you say?"

Mycroft sighed and hung his head. "Yes," he murmured back. "But I fear it's a case of the lesser of two evils." Mycroft lifted his head again and met John's gaze. "I've been his only contact all this time. The only one from home anyway. He loves...his family desperately, but the time apart has been...hard on him. I feel some connection with his home will help him focus through the pain." Mycroft extended his hand, offering John the letter. "Just think about it. If you don't want to I won't be back. If you do, well, I'll be back in three days to see if I have a letter to pick up. If you don't come to the door... I have my answer."

John rolled his eyes as he snatched the letter from Mycroft's hands. "Like you won't know by then anyway."

Mycroft's small, "Thank you, John," was muffled as John closed the door in his face.

John walked back towards his chair and threw himself into it in a huff. Mycroft had a lot of nerve showing up at his doorstep so soon after their little 'talk'. Was this part of his scheme to get John to forget about Sherlock? John brushed his fingers over his broken watch. Not happening. John tilted the letter in his hand, examining it. Now that he looked at it he realized it only had a fancy J emblazoned on the front. That made sense if this operatives mission was a dangerous as Mycroft had said. Anyone they communicated with would also be in danger.

Part of John wanted to crumple the paper up and hurl it into the fire. But there was another part, the ex-soldier part that knew what it was like to be far from home... And this poor sod probably didn't even have so much as a platoon to keep him company.

John turned the letter over in his hands, thinking. Fine. He could always use it for kindling later and no one would be the wiser. Grabbing one of Sherlock's old letter openers off the desk John made short work of the seal.

He pulled the letter out, unfolded it, and began to read. It read:

_Dear John,_

_Mycroft is an ass isn't he?_

John chuckled and surprised himself by doing so. It had been a long time since he'd laughed and meant it. Reading that much made him want to press on a bit further.

_I apologize for whatever Mycroft has done to get you to read thus far. You needn't feel any pressure to continue or reply. I have been away so long it was nice just to write this letter and imagine someone might get this far into reading it._

John nodded to himself. He remembered what it was like to be that homesick. He might not like Mycroft, but this operative of his had done nothing, so far as John could tell, worth being angry or resentful about. It was worth finishing the letter at least.

_If you're still reading at this point, thank you. You still don't need to feel any pressure to respond, but it's nice not to be so alone. This mission has lasted so much longer than anyone suspected. I haven't seen my... well the people I was closest to in several years. _

_I __**miss**__ London, John._

John smiled knowingly at that sentence. What this man really missed where the people he just mentioned; missed them desperately, but was too proud to admit it.

_If you choose to write back please tell me what it's like in London. Spare no details. _

_Also, if you choose I would like to hear more about you, John. I have been informed of your name, that you are an ex-army doctor, and that you are living in an old flat share without your flatmate. I am sorry for any intrusion on your privacy._

_I believe Mycroft only gave you the basic details on myself. I am an operative of his, after a fashion. It was not something I planned or something I'm particularly happy about, but situations came very fast upon me that left me little choice in the matter. Not one of the people I left behind knows what happened to me or, even, that I am still alive... But I had to do what I did; I had to make sure they were safe and damn the consequences..._

John felt his chest clench in sympathy. This person was well and truly _alone_. John could deduce from the stilted handwriting and overly odd phrasing of things that this man wasn't used to being this open with his feelings or the truth of his situation. He was taking a risk opening up to John this way. It was probably foolish of him, but John felt touched that this man, this correspondent was willing to make himself vulnerable, even if only in part. John gathered many details had been left out. Probably John wasn't cleared for the details, especially since whatever mission this was, was still ongoing.

_I don't know much about your situation John, but it sounds as if you might be lonely. I can relate to that. If you would be interested, I should very much like to take up a correspondence with you. I can give you precious little details about my current situation, I cannot even share my true name, but what I am able to share I will happily do so, if you will write back to me._

_I am generally not one for sentiment, but it would be nice to have a connection to home._

The way this man wrote the work 'home' belied his assertion that he was not one for 'sentiment'. John took a breath at the painful reminder of Sherlock that came with that word. He could almost picture Sherlock asking for something this way, half hesitant, half dismissive, and, to John anymore, more revealing of Sherlock's true feelings than he would've liked. John shook himself, and read on:

_I hope this letter finds you well and happy, although given what I do know about you, I doubt this is the case. Still, I wish you happiness all the same._

_Since I cannot give you my real first name I will leave you with my real middle name, which only you and Mycroft will know._

_Yours,_

_Alexander._

John put the letter down and sighed, almost hating himself for wanting to write back as badly as he did. Was he that lonely? Then again, how lonely must Alexander be? John knew it was easy to trust someone faceless and sympathetic... but if he just kept to irrelevant details, especially concerning himself, where would the harm be. Also, Alexander had put himself out there, a little. If what he said was true, John and Mycroft may be the only two people who knew Alexander was still alive.

What would that be like? To know that those people who you cared about most thought you were dead... John didn't have it in him to leave someone like that so alone.

John shifted to sit properly at his desk and took out a piece of paper. The letter Alexander had sent him was hand written, John felt like he should return the favor. No one hand wrote letters anymore. No one took the time. As he listened to the rain against the window, John wrote:

_Dear Alexander,_

_Mycroft is most definitely an ass. However, I see no reason to take that frustration out on you. Much better to wait until __**you**__ give me a reason to be frustrated at you._

_Thank you for sending me a letter. It's nice to hear for someone who just wants to talk, without any of the other stupid agendas people seem to have these days._

_It's raining here, and cold. The rain patters against the window rhythmically unless the wind picks up. Then you can hear the rain driving against the roof as though it were trying to accomplish something else besides getting it wet. These cold wet nights can get into your bones, but at least it's foggy. That might seem strange, but I like he fog Especially a thick fog. The kind that sneaks up to your window and hides the world away behind it, like a thick blanket being drawn across the city._

_Winter is coming and for all the people complain about the weather it's my favorite time of year. The darker and colder it gets the more I enjoy myself. I have a steady supply of what other people call 'hideous' jumpers to keep me warm. I found it's always much easier to get warm than to stay cool. Afghanistan was a bitch because of the heat alone._

_There's a strange symmetry to the darkening days and the 'holiday' season. As thought people think they can banish the dark by being cheery. Most of it's rubbish and sales, but sometimes you can find a glimpse of what people really mean when they say 'holiday spirit'._

_My old flat-mate used to play his violin a lot this time of year when...we weren't busy. I like to tell myself he did it because he knew I liked to hear him play. I hope that doesn't make me too foolish._

John hesitated a moment. He'd tried to give a good sense of London with a bit about himself. John could've spent pages and pages on London, but the truth was the more it changed. the more it stayed the same. He felt, based partly on his own time in service, that this Alexander wanted a little 'snapshot' of home more than anything else. Writing about Sherlock had been hard, but it was just silly little details, nothing soul searching.

John thought about Alexander's situation and swallowed. What could he say about that? What do you say to someone who, even if they do come back might not have the welcome back they wanted. What if he'd been married, and his wife moved on? Would his friends feel lied to? Would he be trusted back at work? Would there even be a space for him? So much of what came to mind sounded petty, empty, and flat.

John sat back and stared into the fire a moment. Despite his best efforts to the contrary Sherlock came to mind. John _knew_ he was dead, he'd seen the body. Even so he couldn't stop himself from imagining what it would be like to learn that Sherlock had lived, as Alexander's family might learn he still lived and had only disappeared to protect them. John would be _**so**_ angry, but even more relived.

John steepled his fingers under his chin for a moment trying not to think of how much he was mirroring Sherlock at the moment. He needed to think, and this might be a good avenue to explore. If, in some alternate universe, Sherlock found himself in Alexander's shoes, what would John want someone to say to him? What would he want him to know?

John smiled then, and bent over the paper to finish his letter.

_I'm sorry you've been alone...I know how much that hurts. You're not alone anymore; I'll be waiting for your next letter._

_- John_


	3. A Friend in Dark Places

Chapter 3: A Friend in Dark Places

John strolled into the sitting room, ruffling a towel in his hair. He had just finished a long soak in a scorching tub and his skin had a red/pink glow. Lowering the towel, John draped it over one of the kitchen chairs. He was dressed in soft flannel pajama pants and a oversized, terry-cloth robe. He was a bit too overheated to think of pulling on a flannel shirt just yet, and his chest peeked out through the V of the neckline.

The robe had been a gift from Sherlock on John's birthday before the fall. Sherlock proclaimed not to be one for gift giving, which made it even more special. Sherlock had thought of him and chosen well; John had put the robe to good use over the years, especially during the cold winter months.

John glanced outside and smiled. Ice crystals formed around the windows and snow was piling up on the sill even as more fell from the sky. A warm fire was still crackling merrily in their fireplace. Today felt like a good day to curl up and read a book. Sometimes John would pretend that Sherlock was there in his mind palace, and he had been during many lazy days around 221 B. John knew it wasn't true, but it helped on the bad days, and even on the bad days that weren't so bad.

John moved towards the fireplace and stoked the logs before turning towards the coffee table. He intended to pick up one of the books piled there, as he'd just been thinking about, when he noticed a splash of white against the dark hardwood floor. John adjusted his course and bent to scoop up the envelope that had been pushed under his door. He smiled as he saw the decorative J emblazoned on the front.

He remembered when Mycroft had stopped by the flat to pick up John's first letter to Alexander. Mycroft had knocked as before, John had opened the door and handed him the letter. Mycroft had nodded as though this was what he'd been expecting and put the letter in his jacket pocket. That had been almost three weeks ago.

Mycroft must have stopped by while John was in the bath, and he wasn't sorry to have missed him. Thing were perhaps more tense between John and Mycroft than they'd been between Sherlock and Mycroft. All things considered, John was glad that Mycroft had 'introduced' him to Alexander. For the first time in a very long time John felt he had something to look forward to.

John tore open the seal with the same letter opener as before, and read:

_Dear John,_

_The fact that Mycroft is an ass, established, I am grateful for his proposal to begin exchanging letters with you. In a way, for the first time since I began this endeavor, I have someone waiting for me...I'm happy for that._

John smiled as he scanned the page. This Alexander struck him as a proud sort of person that did not open up easily. John wondered if he was projecting traits of Sherlock onto Alexander because of how much he missed the consulting detective. It was hard to tell.

_I confess I also prefer the colder months of the year. There's more to see than during the spring and summer, especially if it snows. You can see where people and animals have made their way through the snow, where it would've been easier to miss before. It's infuriating sometimes how willfully blind others can be and the consequences of it..._

_As much as I enjoy the cold though, I look forward to experiencing a proper spring and summer in London when I can finally return. I have been so many different places over the past few years, and, no matter where I go, it always seems to be cold._

_I've never been one for sitting still but,_

There was some hesitancy here, several scratches of the pen as if Alexander hadn't been sure what to write or if he wanted to continue.

_the person I miss the most never had a problem with it. He's so steady and sure, like he's waiting to be the rock someone else can build their world around. I've been told I can be abrasive and, at times, intolerable. While he complained he never left._

_Now that I can dare to think ahead to coming home...I can't expect him to believe or forgive me. For a while I thought about not coming home at all, maybe that would still be the kinder thing to do. For his sake I wish I could be a kinder person._

John bit his lip and shook his head. Alexander sounded as though he had a boyfriend at home, or someone he wished was a boyfriend.

_You miss your flat-mate a lot. You only touched on him briefly in your last letter, but at the same time I got an impression of him even as you described the weather. You've been alone too, John, and I'm sorry for that. But as you said, we are, neither of us, alone anymore._

John smiled despite himself at the stilted language. He felt more and more sure Mycroft had selected this operative because of his similarities to Sherlock. Mycroft wanted a wedge to pry John away from his 'old' life. Well, let him pry all he wanted. John might form other connections in his life, but Sherlock had made an imprint too big to ignore. Even Alexander had seen that.

_It's the dead of winter in London about now, you must be in one of those 'hideous jumpers' as you read this. With a cup of tea and milk; am I right? Probably with a good book to go along with everything. Predictable Englishman really._

John chuckled. He knew Alexander was only trying to get more of a sense of who he was, but it felt like he was being 'deduced' all over again.

_Well I won't keep you from your tea and books any longer. I hope I've made you smile at least once. Thank you for reading. I will be on the lookout for your next letter._

_Yours,_

_Alexander_

John smoothed the letter down with a smile. Lord knows what Alexander was coping with, being on a mission for Mycroft. One he was forced into, granted, but still a dangerous one to have lasted so long. John felt touched that Alexander had made time for him.

John was starting to feel the chill again, so he set his letter down on the coffee table and scrambled up to his room to pull on a flannel shirt in addition to his robe. Afterwards he puttered around in the kitchen, preparing a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk. He actually had milk on a regular bases since he was the only one getting it and Sherlock wasn't appropriating any for his experiments. It was stupid, but he missed being out of milk.

Once John had settled himself on the couch again, he sipped his tea and though about his reply. When the tea was gone he pulled a large book and fresh paper into his lap. Using the book to support the paper he wrote:

_Dear Alexander,_

_Did you know that the convention of writing 'dear' before the name of the intended recipient of a letter is leftover from a time in history when people would write often to their loved ones, hence people who were truly 'dear' to them?_

_That sentence is probably littered with grammatical errors and I don't care. This is a letter to you, so it's your problem now._

_It sounds as if you left a boyfriend behind; is that the case? I'm sorry if I misunderstood. It's_

John hesitated for a long moment before deciding that he couldn't really think of another way to express his general comfort and support.

_It's all fine._

John felt compelled to add:

_Not that I'm flirting or anything. I said something similar to my flatmate once and he thought I was, so just to avoid the confusion. Not flirting. Right. Now I sound like an idiot. Although, to be fair, so do you. _

_You read correctly, Alexander, you are an idiot. Most people are, but you are taking it to new levels for even considering not going home. Boyfriend or not you have someone you care about at home, and they deserve the truth. If they really care about you, if they really love you, it won't matter. I'm not saying you might not walk away without a black eye, but I can guarantee you, if there were any chance that my flat-mate could come back I would jump at the chance to see him again. Everything else is just details. Come home, Alexander. Too many people never get the chance._

_You mentioned that I missed my flat-mate...Am I that obvious? Of course I must be. He..._

John swallowed, hard.

_Sherlock made such a big impression on my life, such a change; you can't just walk away from something like that. I'm not sure if Mycroft told you my former flat-mate was his younger brother. You might have known already. I forget how popular my blog is sometimes. You're right. I miss him every day. _

_I hate hearing people talk badly about him. Although I think I inadvertently started a counter culture movement with my last blog... I've seen a few people wearing "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" t-shirts. It's silly, but it always makes me smile._

_You got something wrong, by the way. I was __**not**__ curled up with a book and a cup of tea. I hadn't gotten there yet; your letter was waiting for me._

John paused for a moment to stare into the fire with a small smile on his lips. As much as it hurt to see reminders of Sherlock in Alexander's letters, in a strange way it helped ease part of the ache inside him. Picking up his pen again, John continued writing:

_I know you can't tell me much about your current assignment but I hope you can tell me some more about yourself. I already know you're brilliant; no other kind of person works for Mycroft. You say you're disagreeable, but I doubt that's entirely true. If living with Sherlock taught me anything, it's that 'prickly' people aren't always as bad as they seem._

_And yes, I smiled more than once. It was good to hear from you. I hope this letter finds you well, stay safe._

_Yours,_

_John_

John blew on his paper to dry the ink, and smiled to himself. He felt a bit lighter. Even knowing that Mycroft wouldn't be back until a few days from now to pick up his letter, John found himself already anxious for a reply.

John stood to clear away his tea. That was one thing you could say about 221B since John had become its sole occupant. It wasn't as messy. On impulse he snatched a fresh, sealed teabag from the box of Earl Grey and strode back into the sitting room. Fetching an envelope he scrawled Alexander's name across the front and dropped the teabag inside. Before folding his letter and adding it he wrote:

_P.S. By the time I wrote this letter I had gotten around to tea. Care to join me?_


	4. Reaching for Home

Chapter 4: Reaching for Home

John trudged up the stairs to 221 B with both arms full of groceries from Tesco's. He was quite tired. He'd worked at the surgery today before stopping at the store on the way home. At least he hadn't had an argument with a chip and pin machine; that would've been embarrassing. Glancing up John noticed Mycroft peering down the steps at him.

"I was about to leave this for you," Mycroft said, brandishing a legal sized envelope with the letter "J" emblazoned on the front in fancy script, "but then I heard you coming up the stairs."

John smiled, happy to see another letter. It had once again been three weeks since his last letter. John wondered if that would be the regular interval for letters? "Thank you for waiting," John said as he crested the stairs, "Just let me set these on the table, and I can take that from you."

John wormed his way into the sitting room and rounded the corner into the kitchen. He set his bags down on the table feeling stupid for being disappointed that there was enough room on the table for him to do that. It was amazing what could grow on you even if it annoyed you.

Turning, John wiped his hands down the front of his jeans and reached to take the letter from Mycroft. "Your nose is looking better," John commented with a grin.

Mycroft glowered and handed over the letter.

John smiled down at the envelope, turning it over in his hands, and feeling a rush of anticipation. A sudden thought occurred to him and he glanced up at Mycroft. John opened his mouth to speak, hesitated for a moment, then pressed on anyway. "Do you know when he might be coming home?" John gestured with the letter as he spoke.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and was silent for a long moment. "Why does his return interest you?"

John shrugged. "Well, we've exchanged a few letters now. It'd be nice to meet the man when he comes home."

"_If_ he comes home," Mycroft replied, and it was John's turn to glower.

"Don't talk like that Mycroft."

"It's the truth John," Mycroft replied stoically.

"You _don't _ know that." John was getting irritated now.

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh, as though he was speaking to a child. "John, this...operative has been away for approximately two and a half years on the most dangerous project I have ever seen undertaken. We must be practical."

That gave John pause. If _Mycroft_ of all people was calling this the most dangerous mission he'd ever seen it had to be quite dangerous. "Being practical is different from being all gloom and doom about it," John persisted.

A small, wry smile curved on the edges of Mycroft's lips. "You are very loyal, very quickly."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. I've heard that before. Do you know when he might be coming home or don't you?"

Mycroft hesitated a long moment, and John feared he wouldn't get an answer. Finally Mycroft said quietly, "He may come home as early as six months from now."

John nodded and sighed. That would make Alexander's time away from home three years. That was such a long time to be away from home. "I'd like to meet him when he comes home, Mycroft. I understand he's believed dead. I could even do a physical for him if he wanted some breathing room before going back on the grid." John frowned thoughtfully. "He'll probably be in rough shape after his mission."

Mycroft sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I knew introducing you two would be a bad idea."

John crossed his arms. "Then why did you?"

Mycroft lowered his hand and met John's gaze again. "Because I want him alive too, and I do think a connection to home is helping him... Just...understand the risks John."

John straightened. "I was a soldier Mycroft, I understand about risks. I'd like to be there for him when he comes back home. It sounds like he's going to have a hell of a time getting his life back together."

"And we're back to that ridiculous loyalty streak of yours," Mycroft sighed, staring down at the floor for a long moment. "Fine," he continued, looking up again, "I'll see what I can do, but I make _**no**_ promises. Understood?"

John brightened a bit. "Life doesn't make promises Mycroft, trying is all you can do." John almost added a 'thank you' but he was still angry at Mycroft for what he'd said about his brother.

Mycroft nodded and started to make his way towards the door. "I will be back in three days, as usual," he called over his shoulder.

John moved to the windows in the sitting room and watched to make sure Mycroft had left before looking at the letter in his hands once more. A smile he couldn't help crept onto his face as he studied his first initial on the front of the envelope. Taking up Sherlock's letter opener, John carefully tore open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and began to read:

_Dear John,_

_The tea was lovely, thank you. It's been a long time since I stopped for a decent cup of tea._

_And, yes John, I am well aware of the history of the English language and the many useless exercises the general public has engaged in for the sake of __**etiquette**__. Luckily for you I care about none of it and will take your letter, grammatical atrocities and all, just as it is._

John smiled and shook his head, thinking of Sherlock before he could stop himself. Reading on he found the next section full of hesitation marks, as though Alexander had come back to this letter many times, trying to find his words.

_Boyfriend... Lover...I...I wish that were true, and I'm twice as cruel for it. He's not my boyfriend, John, I never thought I wanted one. I was always too busy with...work. You say I am an idiot, and that you would be glad to see your flatmate again, but are you sure? Really picture it in your mind, try to make it real. Could you forgive him? How much worse would it be if you had been lovers on top of it?_

_But it's ironic, because I wouldn't be here if not for him... Until my mission is complete I must stay hidden or he, and several others I've grown to care for, will be in grave danger. I miss his smell, his smile, and everything we did together...I was so sure I would never be lead by my emotions, but there was no stopping myself when it came to...him. It just...__**was**__, and despite any protests I may have had about it, I was in the middle of it before I even knew I had begun. I would do __**anything**__ to assure his safety...even if I never get the chance to explain._

John closed his eyes for a moment and just focused on his breathing. What was it Mycroft had said? Ah, yes: Alexander loves his family desperately. That desperation was certainly coming across. The stumbling way Alexander confessed his feelings was endearing and painful. He could imagine Sherlock confessing his love to someone in a stumbling fashion like this...John knew he had to be projecting Sherlock's image onto this man because love, in that sense, wasn't Sherlock's 'thing.' And John...

John stood and made himself a cup of tea before he could finish that thought. If he really wanted to build a friendship with this man he was going to have to see him for who he was, not John's projected image of how he would like Sherlock to have been.

John took a deep breath, settled himself on the couch with his tea, and picked up the letter once more.

_The way you talk about Sherlock...the person I left behind did the same thing for me. Look at us both. This is why I will never understand it when people insist that love is a __**good**__ thing. Look at all the pain it causes..._

John sighed and pressed his lips and a thin, unhappy line. "Stubborn idiot," he muttered. John would have to see if he could talk some sense into him.

_To change topics for a moment, I must admit I'm pleased to hear about your little 'revolution' as you call it. Anything that vexes the yard is bound to be entertaining. I was familiar with some of the yard members before I left. That happens when you work with Mycroft. I can just see Lestrade's sour face as he is accosted by people in matching t-shirts._

_I'm flattered that you want to hear about me John; no one wants to hear about me._

John pursed his lips to stop himself from voicing an argument to a man who was god knows how many miles away, and read on.

_I'm no being self deprecating; I really am difficult to get along with. I don't have the patience to be polite with most people. That is an unsentimental statement of fact. However, since you're curious, I'll tell you more. I am an avid reader. Many people think I only read scientific works. While I do read plenty of those, I am not adverse to a novel. Especially when it is telling of human behaviors, history, and/or customs. One never knows when those things could be helpful._

_You're right, I am brilliant._

John chuckled to himself. "And humble too," he murmured sarcastically, before he continued reading.

_At the risk of quoting this 'pop culture' people seem so obsessed with it is a gift and a curse. It physically hurts to have nothing to do or think about. Because of this I don't sleep well; my brain just won't shut off most days. I am very accustomed to pain and pushing past it. Despite what most people assume I wish I could sleep more' turn my brain off. As much as it hurts to have nothing to think about, it hurts to have too many things as well. If I could sleep I would pass time between interesting missions much faster._

John's hands shook a bit as he read the letter. He was trying not to see Sherlock, and he found Sherlock laid out in front of him. He shouldn't be surprised, Mycroft was always trying to get Sherlock to work for him, it makes sense that he would choose someone similar. There isn't much more to the letter, and John forces himself to press on.

_I have noticed something in re-reading your letters just now. Both times you have wished for my safety, and both times I have written you, I have wished for your happiness. Strange, I normally hate repeating myself. I suppose there is, as they say, a first time for everything._

John felt a smile curl onto his lips.

_So I will wish again for your happiness, John. _

There were more hesitation marks here, and even something that had been scribbled out as if Alexander had written it before he'd had the chance to think better of it. As much as he squinted John couldn't make it out. At last he shrugged and wrote it off to something being misspelled or Alexander having been interrupted and his pen having slipped. He read on, finishing the letter:

_If you are amenable, I would very much like to hear what you have been doing lately; I would like to get a sense of who you are as well. ...Be happy, John._

_ Yours,_

_ Alexander._

The words 'be happy' were shaky as though Alexander hadn't been sure whether or not to write them, as if he couldn't help himself. John smiled. He could tell he was dealing with a man who didn't let others in often, and felt honored that Alexander had opened up to him.

John let out a slow breath through pursed lips and closed his eyes. He felt so many things at once. Pain at the reminder of Sherlock that he couldn't seem to avoid seeing in these letters, pain for Alexander's own situation, and another sensation that was harder to place. John scrunched his eyebrows together and tried to give a name to that icy/fire feeling in his stomach, the kind of feeling you get when you plummet from the apex of a rollercoaster...and again he thought of Sherlock. John used to get this feeling on case, especially if there was a chase involved.

John couldn't say exactly why, but he knew that there was something dangerous here... Well, he'd never walked away from danger in his life, why start now? John opened his eyes, place Alexander's letter reverently on his desk, and made more tea.

When John had finished another glass of tea and had made an additional pot to carry him through the afternoon he curled on the couch with a paper pressed against a large book which served as a make-shift writing purpose, and began to compose his reply.

_Dear Alexander,_

_I asked Mycroft when you were coming home today. He wasn't happy about the question and he didn't want to answer, but I was able to wring it out of him...he said it could be as soon as six months...I'd like to see you when you come back. Lord knows you'll need a doctor with whatever Mycroft's put you through. Between Sherlock and Afghanistan almost nothing surprises me anymore. I figure when you come back it'll probably take a few days at least to debrief, maybe recover depending on what state you're in. I've never been a fan of Mycroft's hospitality so...if you need to crash someplace and get your head together, you're welcome here._

_However, let me make one things perfectly clear: you are going to find that man you're in love with and explain to him what happened. So help me god I'll drag you through all of London by your ear if you make me, just to make sure you're together again. I can see how much you love him, it's as obvious as the fact that I...miss Sherlock. You can't go through all of this just to walk away without even trying. I won't allow it. That's probably pretty rude on my part but... I..._

John took a breath to steady himself. He was being harsh on Alexander at the same time as trying to be comforting, and it felt like there was something unidentified swimming just beneath the surface...

Alexander had asked him to stop and think, to really picture what it would be like for Sherlock to come back; it seemed only fair to give it a try. Sure he'd imagined Sherlock magically being alive again, but John had been too raw to really surrender himself to the fantasy... it felt like he really would shatter if he tried. It had been two and a half year...maybe it was time. Folding his hands over his half written letter, John closed his eyes and thought about it...What if he had been deceived all this time, and Sherlock came back? What would that be like?

John pictured Sherlock, summoned a clear image of his height, his pale skin, his wiry body, his dark curls, his sharp cheek bones, and his stunning blue eyes... John imagined Sherlock stepping into the flat, the wood creaking under his weight as he tugged at his familiar scarf. A sharp intake of breath overtook John as long buried emotions swelled within him. Joy...pain...so much joy.

God, he would tackle Sherlock and pin him to the ground and never, ever let him up again. He would hit him too. Not the kind of hit that injures, but more like an ineffectual beating of his fists against Sherlock's chest; more an expression of emotion than an act of violence, a way to feel Sherlock alive, and whole, and real beneath him.

Tears stung John's closed eyes and his hands clenched reflexively over his letter, crinkling it, as if to hold this image of Sherlock in place and make it real... John opened his eyes with another sharp breath and his tears spilled onto the paper beneath him. John ran a shaky hand over his face, pressing his hand to his mouth to stop the small noises that threatened to escape. A hot, powerful feeling he knew, John _knew_ had been in place long before Sherlock had jumped surged around him like a wave and, for the first time, he knew what to call it...

God he had been _**so**_ stupid... It wouldn't have changed anything, it would probably have broken up their partnership, and still John would _always_ regret not telling Sherlock the truth. He deserved to know, and now it was far, far too late.

John yanked a tissue from its box on the coffee table and wiped away the tears. He took a deep breath and ran his hand over the letter to smooth it and remove the tears. John tried to steady himself as he took up his pen again, but his hand still shook a little. Still he wrote, because he most definitely had his answer.

_You asked me to think, really think, about what it would be like to have Sherlock back again... I did. I am such an idiot... we really are quite the pair... My answer has not changed. If anything, I'm more sure. COME HOME. Find the man you love, and so help me God, tell him the __**truth**__._

_I believe you when you say you would to anything to protect your loved ones, so believe me when I say I would do __**anything**__ to have Sherlock back again. __**ANYTHING**__**.**_

John underlined his second 'anything' so hard he almost tore through the paper. He took a breath, forced himself to take a long sip of tea, and pressed on.

_You asked me how much worse it would be if Sherlock and I had been lovers... It never would've happened. That's not 'his area' as he informed me many times. You think that would've turned me off loving him, but here I am, three years later, loving a brilliant, impossible man who is nearly three years dead. _

_You somewhat insinuated this in your last letter, so let me be clear. I love Sherlock Holmes. I spent so much time running from that when he was alive, then grieving him since his fall I couldn't even name the emotion for years... you're the only person I've ever told and yet everyone knows... We were often mistaken as a couple... God, he probably knew... I still should've told him. He believed in the truth. I just...What we did together was too much fun, too life changing to walk away from or risk damaging... So yes, I am an idiot and a coward and I'll be __**damned**__ if I let you follow my example. __No arguments__. _

John leaned back and strong-armed himself into another cup of tea before he continued his letter. It had been more emotional than he thought it would. He needed a break. With a somewhat steady hand, he changed topics.

_Now, on to Lestrade. You're in luck. I snapped a picture of him once, outside my flat, surrounded by a crowd of 'Sherlockians' as they call themselves. T-shirts and all. Now I may, or may not have mentioned in my blog that Lestrade had been coming around the flat a lot to get me to 'snap out of it' in order to encourage such a gang of Sherlockians. I'll print off a picture and send it with the letter. You sound like you could use a laugh._

_I have to confess you sound a lot like Sherlock. I try not to see him in your writing but I can't seem to help it... I'm probably just projecting, but he was a bit of a tortured genius too. Still I could get him to laugh and eat and sleep more than he would've on his own; I'm betting this man you love can do the same for you. If you let me, I can also see what I can do as a doctor. Maybe there's something that could aide your sleep without throwing everything else you love about your busy mind out of whack... I'll have to do some research._

_Now, you asked about me. We've already covered my idiocy around Sherlock... He was such a big part of my life, and in many ways he still is. I still write in my blog, although now it's more ramblings to him about my day, or how he's an idiot, or how I miss him. Sometimes, more often in the beginning, I wrote little essays defending his name. The Sherlockians sort of took that over so I don't do it as often anymore._

_I have a broken watch on my wrist. I removed the battery, then set the time to the moment Sherlock jumped. He would think it was useless and sentimental, and maybe you do to, but I don't care. If it wasn't obvious enough already, part of me is stuck in that moment and, while the rest of me lives my life as best it can, I'm not sure that other part is ever getting unstuck. Like the scar I have on my shoulder from being shot in Afghanistan (yes I was shot there, that's what sent me home) some things just take away bits of you and you have to learn to live without them, or die. As much as it hurts, I've never given up on anything in my life, and I'm not about to start now. _

_But there's more to it than that... I know, I am __**certain**__ that there are things about Sherlock's death I don't know. Maybe even Mycroft doesn't know. But, if it's the last thing I do, I will have some answers before I die. I'm not as good at detective work as Sherlock, but I am waiting and watching for my opportunity. When it comes, I'll be ready._

_As much of my life is affected by Sherlock, it's not consumed with it. I keep up a job at a local surgery and being able to help someone else feels good, especially on the days when missing Sherlock hurts the most. I read too. Not as much as you and Sherlock did, and all the books I read are novels, but it can be a fun way to pass the time. Again, sometimes it's nice to focus on other people's problems._

_I've also taken up running since Sherlock's fall. I guess I got too used to tearing around London with him. Chasing after criminals is more fun, but I manage._

_You probably already know this, but I made a lot of tea today. This correspondence...these letters, they're not easy, but they're important. I don't want to stop them even if they're a bit uncomfortable at times... I feel like they're going to lead somewhere good, even if all that is, is a new friendship. The idea of that, makes me happy, so keep writing._

_Stay safe, Alexander. I look forward to your next letter._

_ Yours, _

_ John._

John carefully folded up the letter when he was finished an placed it in a waiting envelope. After a few mouse clicks he had printed the picture he had promised Alexander. John studied it for a moment before adding it to the envelope. Lestrade looked as unhappy as Sherlock had ever made him, and he was ringed with people in black shirts with the words "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" clearly emblazoned on them in white. The image still made John smile.

John carefully sealed the envelope and scrawled Alexander's name on the front. He propped it up by his computer. In the days that followed, as the letter sat there and waited for Mycroft to retrieve it, John would look over at it periodically, smile, and wish again for Alexander's safe return home.


End file.
